"Prefect Robert?" Maurise paused in his tracks and turned around.
"The one and only." Robert offered a faint, approving smile. "I saw you getting cornered by those Slytherins earlier. I was actually on my way to step in, but it seems you handled it quite handily on your own. That was an impressive display."
"Just a few little tricks to teach some bratty kids a lesson," Maurise replied calmly. "It was nothing special, really."
Robert's eyebrows shot up. "With Transfiguration that refined, you could afford to be a bit more confident. Honestly, at your age, I don't know anyone who could pull off that level of work."
It seemed Robert had mistaken Maurise's Bone-Summoning for high-level Transfiguration. Maurise offered a small, knowing smile but didn't bother to correct him. It saved him the headache of explaining the nuances of necromancy to a Hufflepuff.
"Thank you, Robert."
"Don't thank me," Robert said, waving a hand dismissively. "I didn't actually do anything to help. But between you and me..." He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I've never had much of a stomach for the Slytherin lot either. You don't need to be polite with them. Sometimes, making them suffer a bit of tangible grief is the only language they actually understand."
Maurise caught the subtext immediately. Slytherins respected strength and little else.
It fit the reputation. If there was one house at Hogwarts that worshipped power and hierarchy, it was the snakes. Dominating them was the shortest path to peace. Thinking back, Maurise actually felt he might have been a bit too lenient.
Perhaps he should have been more creative with Draco Malfoy. A nice Enervation Hex, for instance, to leave the boy as limp as a wet noodle for the rest of the afternoon.
"Next time they bother me," Maurise said with a light shrug, "I'll just make sure to kick their asses a bit harder."
Robert let out a genuine bark of laughter. "That's the spirit!"
Maurise sighed, his expression shifting to one of mild, weary annoyance. "Honestly, I never go looking for trouble. It just seems to have a way of finding my coordinates." He thought of the Centaurs in the Forbidden Forest and then Malfoy. He had been minding his own business both times.
Robert sighed in sympathy, a look of haunted memory crossing his face. "Tell me about it. Some people are just magnets for chaos. In that regard, you and I might be more alike than you think."
He shook his head as if tossing away an unpleasant thought. "Just a word of caution, though. Keep an eye on that Malfoy kid. Word is his father is on the Board of Governors. Not that a Governor would usually stoop to meddling in a schoolyard spat, even for his own son, but keep your wits about you. Just stay within the rules, more or less, and you'll be fine."
Robert patted Maurise on the shoulder. "And remember, Slytherins are famous for their long memories and even longer grudges. Be careful."
"I understand. Thanks for the heads-up," Maurise nodded. It was clear the Prefect had gone out of his way just to give him this warning. It was a kind gesture.
"Glad to hear it. If you ever need a hand with something, feel free to find me. Within reason, of course." With a final wave, Robert turned and headed off toward the library.
Maurise wasn't particularly worried about Malfoy's revenge. He had a very simple philosophy. If they brought a shield, he'd bring an axe. What could a first-year student really do to him anyway?
As the days turned into weeks, Malfoy surprisingly failed to launch any sort of counterattack. In fact, whenever they crossed paths in the corridors, the blond boy would suddenly find something very interesting to look at in the opposite direction, taking a wide detour to avoid him.
Maurise felt a twinge of disappointment. He had already prepared several "parting gifts" in anticipation of a Round Two.
Still, the silence allowed him to focus on his own projects. Time slipped away, and soon December arrived. The Scottish air grew biting, and the first few flakes of snow began to drift past the high windows of the castle.
On a crisp Saturday morning, Maurise made his way to the library as usual.
"I have told you a thousand times, Maurise! No food in the library!"
Madam Pince's voice cracked like a whip near his ear. Maurise froze at the entrance, frantically shoving the last of his bread into his mouth and swallowing hard.
A few days ago, he had accidentally left a smudge of butter on a book cover. Madam Pince had transformed into a terrifying, shrieking harpy, chasing him through the stacks for a solid thirty minutes. To Maurise, she was the most dangerous woman in the castle. Compared to her, Professor Snape's oily sneers felt like bedtime stories.
The library was quiet in the early hours, though a few dedicated souls were already buried behind towers of parchment.
Among them were his friends. Hermione, Harry, and Ron.
It was a strange sight. Harry and Ron were actually in the library of their own free will. Maurise felt a strange sense of paternal pride seeing them huddled over books.
He picked out a volume on experimental potions and slid into a seat beside them. "Morning, everyone."
"Oh, it's you, Maurise," Hermione said, looking up. She looked like she hadn't slept since the previous Tuesday.
Harry and Ron offered vague, mumbly greetings, their eyes glazed over with the Thousand-Yard Stare of the academically broken.
"If you're that tired, why not go take a nap?" Maurise suggested. "Your brains clearly aren't absorbing anything in this state."
"We aren't studying, Maurise," Hermione whispered, rubbing her temples. "We're searching for someone."
"Who?"
"Nicolas Flamel," she said, watching his face for a reaction. "Does the name ring a bell?"
Maurise shook his head. "Sounds a bit French."
Hermione sighed. "You read so many obscure books, I was hoping you might have stumbled across him in some dusty corner."
"If he were a Potions Master, I'd know him," Maurise said with a shrug. "Is he that important? You three look like you've had your souls sucked out just trying to find him."
"He's very important," Harry added. "But we can't really say why. It's... complicated."
Maurise didn't push. He preferred a quiet life, and complicated usually meant dangerous and unpaid.
"Actually," Maurise said, remembering something, "since you're already digging through history books, could you keep an eye out for someone for me?"
He reached into his robes and pulled out a photograph he had found in the cabin within the Interstice. The image of the handsome, golden-haired young man.
The trio leaned in, curious.
"Is he famous?" Hermione asked, squinting at the picture. "I don't recognize him."
"Blimey, he's a good-looking bloke, isn't he?" Ron muttered.
Harry nodded. "Looks like a movie star or something."
"If you see any portraits or mentions of someone who looks like him while you're looking for your Frenchman, let me know," Maurise said. "In exchange, I'll keep an eye out for Nicolas Flamel."
"Deal," Hermione agreed, before diving back into a thick tome titled 'Notable Histories of the Fourteenth Century'.